


May God Have Mercty

by whizkyfever



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys: California (Comics)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Draculoid Brutalizing, Draculoid Killing, Drug Use, Graphic Description, Killing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:20:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28059093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whizkyfever/pseuds/whizkyfever
Summary: Cherri wakes up and the sun burns his eyes. His skin is fried, bloody, the sand stings and sticks to the newly burned flesh. The blue takes over the black of his pupils, that are barely even there anymore, permanently stuck on the same position. He has a thirst for blood on the tip of his fingers, his trigger finger itches. He need some draculoid guts
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	May God Have Mercty

Cherri wakes up and the sun burns his eyes. His skin is fried, bloody, the sand stings and sticks to the newly burned flesh. The blue takes over the black of his pupils, that are barely even there anymore, permanently stuck on the same position. He has a thirst for blood on the tip of his fingers, his trigger finger itches. He need some draculoid guts.

He firmly grabs the sand beneath him and stands up, unsteady, woobly on his feet. Slightly swinging from side to side, he starts walking. He gets to Guanamo and keeps straight, the big baseball ball of radiation burning the skin of his bare back, melting off the little rest of skin he still has. He needs food, needs water, what he wants is booze, but his body, right now, is in survival mode, searching for anything that can ease the blinding pain of burning. That pain is closely tied to his own pleasure, one that he refuses to let go of. He gets to a small bar on the left side of the road, he can see the tall buildings of battery city standing imposingly a few miles afar. His vision is turbid as he kicks the glass door open and collapses on the floor, letting out a small complain of pain as the frigid concrete hits his flesh.

The bartender shouts in anger and annoyence. "Fucking wavies.."

She, however, is not afraid, just slightly disgusted by the vision of the man in front of. With her foot, she nudges him, getting her boots stained with blood, sand and skin. She drags him by the feet to the backroom of the bar where all the liquor is stocked. Enough alcohol for him not to get a generalised infection. Enough for survival. She then proceeds to put the unconscious man into a sitting position, where she can get rid of the rest of his clothes and begin to pour alcohol into the open wounds. Cherri dreams of hell and the little devils sticking a thousand needles into his meat but doesnt wake up to scream.

When the bartender is done with the dirty work, she swaddles him in gauze, tightly, covering all of his upper and lower body, up to his once gorgeous face that was now not visible over all the bandages.

Waking up, Cherri moans. He's alone in the room. He feels groggy, every muscle of his body yelling and cursing at his brain, that is now not as functional as it used to be, or should be. His hair, peaking over the top of his head, the once bright blue lock now gray. He looked like a mummy, yes. But He din't care to stay still now. He needed to kill something. Searching through boxes, he found a gun. A semi automatic Winchester 22, they used plenty of those during his war days. The weight of the gun on his hand was familiar. Something that brought back those old times.

He's standing on the battle ground, people yell and shout as cars explode by his left and all he can do it's run into the enemy territory, gun in hand, shooting as many enemies he can. He does not know the face of the target, but he hits one in the chest and the other on the head. In that moment he's shot in the side. He falls to the ground yelling in pain. Someone aproaches. Another target. His brain shouts at his muscles and they grip at the gun, shaky hand on the trigger and...

BOOM!

In the once white walls of the back room, now there's red. A headless body lays at Cherri's feet as he snaps out of his flashback. The bartender. He shot her right on the neck, causing her muscles to give in and her head to bend to the side, in an unatural position. He stared at his feet. Her eyes were wide open and huge. Like they were staring right into his soul. He reminded himself he had no soul. Hands firm on the ground, pushing up and he was standing once again. His head spun but he kept up on his feet. Walking in a straight line out of the back room. There were no costumers, much to his own luck. He walked around the counter and took a bottle of Jack with him. He left the bar and when the sun hit his eyes, he's blinded all over again, so he blinks until his vision adjusts to the new clarity. He steals the bartenders clothes and boots and starts walking, taking sip after sip from the Jack, until the bottle is completely empty.

It’s nearly dawn. He sees by the horizon a patrol car and that brings him to ecstasy. Finally some bacon to fry. He springs into a run. The Winchester 22 tightly on his hands as he does so, it’d be useful for what he was about to do. 

A huddle of rocks stands in front of him. Tall and lofty, it’s a perfect hiding spot. So he hides. And he waits, until the car stops nearby the rocks. Draculoids leave by the doors and stand sillily near the car, as if looking for something to hunt and kill. One of them leans back on the car’s hood and crosses it’s arms, looking around from side to side. That makes something awaken in Cherri. The simple motion of head, that looks so human, pushes him out of his hiding and forwards, to the draculoids. He starts shooting sooner than them and manages to hid one in the chest and other in the arm. 

They shot at each other for minutes before Cherri’s munition ends and he curses loudly at the wind and at the sand Gods, who were definitely not with him in that moment. The Agent’s head spins and pauses. His breathing, unsteady, his mind, pumped of adrenaline. He leaves his hiding and screams a battle cry as he strikes his first punch, knocking the shooting drac onto the sand. 

The other keeps shooting at Cherri and hits the crook of his lower spine as he straddles the other and starts punching. Back and forth his hand goes, creating a bloody mess beneath him. He disfigurates the draculoid, not stopping until his hand hits the pure, wet and vibrant sand underneath the head. He doesn’t notice the other draculoid ran away. He doesn’t notice it’s already dead. 

He just keeps punching and punching and punching. 

When all the hype is worn off he lays in the ground, next to the brutalized corpse. His heart, beating like a stone crusher, nailing the wall of his inside, threatening to jump out. Something Cherri really wished to see one day. His own heart, rebelling against him and causing his eventual death. 

The sun is gone and so is the heat. He curls up in a tiny ball, bringing his shaky red hand close to his chest. The day is over. And so is the partying.


End file.
